


I clutched my life and wished it kept

by gaysandcrime



Series: time, time is all we have left [1]
Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Dark Magic, Gen, Pre-Canon, Soulmates, The White Plague aka Tuburculosis, absolutely butchered persian! oops, bit of fairy tale vibes, making up my own legends and magical lore as i go along sorry lol, these are the strangest tags ive ever used, this is a prequel to a much longer more canon based story that is coming soon, warning: many oc deaths ahead, world building in Al Quolanudar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24735793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysandcrime/pseuds/gaysandcrime
Summary: He is weak and dying, the fever stealing him away in the night. When someone comes to Al Quolanudar with a wish to spend, Mama and the family pay the price to see him cured.But the price is too high, and he finds no contentment in Gods unforgiving and cruel will.
Series: time, time is all we have left [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790692
Comments: 17
Kudos: 24





	1. Prologue: No more prayers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My head was warm  
> My skin was soaked  
> I called your name 'til the fever broke
> 
> (Persian translations will be at the end of the chapter)

There is a story, old, from the time of Al Quolanudor. It tells a tale of intimacy, connection on the deepest level between two who's fates are intertwined. Before he tasted the blood of battle, the hot fury which sings in a warriors bones, before he'd ever swung an ax or sliced off a head, Nandor was a lover of stories. He'd been a sickly child, large of body but weak of heart, prone to illness and fatigue. His mother feared constantly for his life and did everything in her power to make him strong, though there was not much she could do. Between many and lengthy prayers, she would tell him tales of their people, and tales of the creatures which granted wishes and stole away sickly children from their beds.

"They look like the woods themselves," she said, and Nandor would picture them, rough bark and greenery, spirits whispering false promises in the ears of children, their branches reaching out to take what isn't theirs. Sometimes they would take the child whole, body and all. More often they would separate soul from body and leave the corpse behind, riddled with illness and fever but nothing of the gods left inside.

"Do they grant wishes, Mama?" He knew he should not need wishes when he has his prayers; but sometimes it felt as though the gods were not listening, and granting wishes seemed like great magic to a child with so many of them.

But his mother shook her head. "No, delbar-am, that is a different creature. But- they are not... kind. They take too much, and the price is almost never worth the wish. That is why we pray."

"Yes, Mama." 

Nandor listened to every tale avidly, partly because there wasn't anything else he could do other than sleep, but mostly because they fascinated him. He was fascinated by the idea that somewhere in the forests there was a creature who's price was the dying and ill, in a time and place where plagues came every few years to steal away the old and the young in equal measure. His mother made him swear that he would not go with such a creature, no matter what they promised him. He agreed, because he knew that if he went away, he would never get the chance to be the great warrior he'd always dreamed of being. And besides, wishes tempted him much more than empty promises.

In his eleventh year of life, the winter was particularly harsh and long. The frosts were early and shriveled the crops that hadn't already been harvested, and the snows stretched through 'til the late spring, delaying the growth of flora and fauna alike. It was during this winter that the White Plague reached the village, and spread its tendrils of death to nearly every family in every household. The newly born went first, their tiny untested bodies unable to withstand the sickness for even a fortnight. The young and elderly were next to succumb, bodies weakened by the lack of food and extreme cold.

It seemed to the Redha family that the plague would pass them by, as none in their kolba were seemingly touched by it, and as the winter finally ended so did the White Plague, stealing away a few last lives as it left the village. Nandor Redha and his family were safe – and then the coughing began.

In hindsight it seemed incredibly foolish to think someone as sickly and weak as he had been his entire life, could escape the plague untouched. And yet that is exactly what they had thought, all of them, because throughout it all Nandor had seemed no worse off than before, confined to bed but otherwise the same. Mama believed that her prayers had kept them safe, but once the coughing began they understood that praying had not helped. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the bed sheets as his body shook with a violent fever, and Nandor knew he was dying.

“Mama, no more prayers.”

“Please, delbar-am, I must.”

Nandor wiped the blood from his lips and shook his head. “No, Mama. I love you, but it cannot help.”

She turned from him with shaking hands. “Nandor – ”

“Please, tell me a story. Please, Mama. A happy one.”

Mama smoothed out the thin blanket over his legs and took a breath. “Alright, habibi, alright.”

There is a story, old, from the time of Al Quolanudor, and from all of time itself, before, after and during. It tells a tale of intimacy, connection on the deepest level between two who's fates are intertwined.

Let us begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Redha (Reza) meaning Content, satisfied with God's will  
> Delbar-am meaning The one who has my heart  
> Habibi meaning My love, my dear, my darling or beloved  
> Kolba meaning Hut, dwelling, abode


	2. I would sacrifice for you, my soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I awoke  
> The moon still hung  
> The night so black that the darkness hummed
> 
> (Persian translations will be at the end of the chapter)

Death was at the door, and Nandor could barely stay awake to greet him. He floated in and out of consciousness, never certain that what he was seeing was real. Sometimes he would wake to find his mother or his siblings sitting by his bed, hands folded in prayer. Sometimes he woke and could see nothing but darkness, as though all the light in the world had been consumed by the White Plague. Most often, Nandor would float on the edge of consciousness, listening to the woods whisper promises of release, promises of safety. He would imagine the creatures face of bark and darkness looking in through the doorway of their home, hoping to creep in and take him to the trees. Sometimes, he felt as though he were floating above his body, a vapour in the air, so close to stealing away to the forests and hills, of following the whispering wind. But every time he came close, his mother's prayers would break through the haze of fever, and pull him back to earth, back to the body riddled with disease and pain.

“Mama,” he tried to speak, but his lungs would not hold anything but blood, and he coughed until his vision went white.

“No, habibi, no more talking. Shh, rest.”

But Nandor would not listen, and he forced the words from his throat. “I love you.”

His mother could not stop the sob that escaped at those words. “I love you, Nandor, and I will not see you die. Aziz delam, anything at all to keep you safe, habibi, I will–,”

Nandor did not hear anything more as the fever consumed him and he fell into darkness once again.

+

Mama stood on the edge of the forest, and did what she always did; she prayed. She prayed for her son, who lay dying in his bed after a life of sickness. She prayed for her family, who had already begun to mourn their brother. She prayed to the gods; every god she knew the name of, and she prayed to the forest who's magics were many.

And her prayers were answered.

The trees moved in a nonexistent wind, rippling like the grass in summer. They parted in the middle, and from the densest section of forest came a figure draped in black and green and brown, with a face as pale as the moon and as rough as the bark on the trees themselves. Mama kept her hands folded in prayer and did not move or speak. The figure, a woman or at least a woman shaped being, spoke.

“You come for a wish.”

It was not a question. Mama nodded and let her hands fall to her sides. “I do.”

The witch tilted her head towards the trees, and listened. “The forest will give you one, but the price will be heavy.”

“Anything. I will give anything, for my Nandor to be healthy and strong, to be able to live.”

“And if it is not just yours to give?”

Mama paused at that, but did not let her confusion stop her from saying what she knew she had to, if she wanted to save her child. “Then I will make it mine and give it gladly.”

The witch nodded. “The deal is made, and balance kept. You have chosen the path. Lead me to the boy.”

So she did. Nandor was barely breathing when they arrived, and the scent of old blood and sickness permeated the air. The witch stood leaning above him, her many forest colored coverings hiding her face from Mama's view. She did not move, nor speak out loud, but Mama was certain she heard words in a language she did not know. The witch stepped back and turned away, her rough face expressionless as it had been when she exited the forest.

“It is done.”

Mama stared. “He will live?”

“You wished for him to be healthy and strong, to be able to live. He will gain health and strength in equal measure, and live he shall, for many years to come.”

“Thank you,” Mama breathed, feeling hopeful for the first time in many many moons.

The witch did not respond, just stood there silently, rigidly, watching with ancient eyes. Mama led her outside, but before the witch turned towards the forest, she said, “The price is coming, and the story has begun. Do not call on us again.” And then she was gone, as though the very air had absorbed her, as though all along she had been nothing but a whisper on the wind with the face of a tree. Mama closed her eyes and leaned against the door frame to Nandor's room. A shiver went through her at the old witch's words, but she did not let that stop her relief. She had made a wish and it had been granted, and now her son would live, healthy and strong as he had never been; there was no space for regret, only relief and joy that her prayers had been answered.

But as the woods had promised, the price was heavy and the burden encompassing; there is no undoing what has already been done. And Mama would soon find out that her heart had plenty of space for regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Habibi meaning My love, my dear, my darling or beloved  
> Aziz Delam meaning I would sacrifice for you, my soul


	3. Strength for strength, health for health, life for life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I raised myself  
> My legs were weak  
> I prayed my mind be good to me
> 
> (Persian translations will be at the end of the chapter)

Nandor made a miraculous recovery from an illness that no one was supposed to survive. One minute he was choking on the last bit of breath left in his lungs, and the next he was breathing deeply and fully. The fever left in the night, and his coughing stopped the next day, the only evidence of it ever having been there the bloodstains on his sheets and skin. He was thankful to be alive, but he knew the gods had not answered his or his Mama's prayers.

"It is so good to see you awake, delbar-am."

Nandor just looked at his mother with tired eyes. "Mama, I had a strange dream when I was ill. There was a tree with the face of a woman next to me, and she spoke words in the language of the forest, and said I would live for a thousand years."

She smiled at him and brushed his dark hair back from his forehead. "It was just a dream, Nandor. Dreams are the companion of fever, always."

"Why do I feel better? I should be dead."

"No, never say that! Habibi, you are better now. I prayed and prayed and it is a miracle from the gods." 

But though he was just eleven, Nandor was not stupid. He remembered the stories his mother had been telling him his entire life, and he knew that his dream had been real. "What did you promise them, Mama? What price will you pay?" But Mama would not answer, only shushed him and tucked him back in.

"Rest now, habibi, so your strength can return to you faster. Do not worry about your Mama, I can look after myself."

So Nandor slept, but he could not shake the terrible feeling that something was wrong, and there was nothing he could do about it.

+

He rested for three days and three nights. His muscles, which had been weak his whole life, grew strong in short bursts of pain, and on the fourth day Nandor was strong enough to stand. He had recovered from his illness, but more than that he had gained a strength - an energy - which he had never possessed before. Enough to walk out of his room and join his family in their meal, where his mother cried in happiness and his three brothers and younger sister made room for him with large smiles. 

"It is a miracle that you are not sick," his eldest brother Armeen said, his normally severe expression for once smooth, relaxed. "We thought you were going to die."

Nandor ate his bread slowly. "I thought so too. Mama said the gods answered her prayers for a miracle, which is why I am better now."

Farhad, who's dark beard seemed much better groomed than usual, and who had never been very nice to his brother Nandor, said, "You gave us a great scare, Nandor." Though much of his expression was hidden behind dark hair, Nandor could tell he was smiling. "We are lucky you are still with us, else Mama would have to start babying Javid and he would not take well to it."

"Nandor, do not listen to him! Farhad, where are your manners? Your brother was very ill, and now you make fun of him?" Mama reached over to pinch Farhad's arm roughly, her face still streaked with tears.

"Mama, it's fine. He meant me no harm, and I am glad to be alive to be made fun of." Nandor laughed, still feeling stronger and healthier than he ever had in his life, and any worries he had about outrunning death fell away. He was able to eat with his family, and in that moment nothing else mattered. "Besides, he is right! I will be glad to hear more of your stories while I rest in bed, so Javid does not have to suffer so." He smiled at Javid, who being four and ten, was closest in age to him. 

Javid smiled back, but said nothing. Nandor noticed he was not eating his bread.

"You are not hungry?" he asked him, and Javid shook his head slowly, as though he weren't quite certain it were the truth. He handed the bread over to Nandor, and said,

"Eat. You have been sick and need it more." And Nandor, who had never felt as hungry as he did then, agreed. His sister Tala, who was not quite eight years old, watched him from the corner of the table as though he might disappear at any second. 

He smiled at her and she smiled back. "I missed you, Nandor," she said sweetly. "I am so happy Mama could wish for a miracle."

"Me too, Tala. Me too. As a Redha, it is good to be content with the god's will."

+

Nandor felt glad to be alive. He stayed at the table with his family for many hours past their meal, laughing and talking to each one of them as much as he could. Javid was the only one of them who seemed subdued, quiet, still. For a horrible second Nandor feared his brother might be ill. But when he smiled at him Javid grinned back, and his fear faded as quickly as it had come.

"You will join us outside today?" Farhad asked, and Nandor didn't let his surprise stop him from nodding quickly.

But Mama said no. "You are barely recovered, Nandor. No, you will stay inside."

"But, Mama-,"

"Rest, habibi. You need to sleep to gain back your strength. Dooset daram, but a miracle can only do so much." 

He stopped and then nodded in agreement. He did not tell her that he'd never felt as strong as he did then, for he did not know how to say it. It was as though the gods were making up for a lifetime of ill health and weakness, giving him the same energy and health his siblings all had that he had always been jealous of. Nandor shrugged at his brothers and went back to bed. Despite his seemingly endless energy, he fell asleep almost instantly. But his sleep was anything but restful; he dreamed that he was in the woods, someone near by watching him, calling to him. He seemed to float on the wind between the tree trunks, his fingers grasping at the bark and branches but finding nothing to hold on to. A woman was there, her face hidden in cloth, her body shrouded in shadow. She did not speak, only watched him with tired, tired eyes. He didn't know how, but he was certain he knew her.

"Who are you?" he said in the dream, his body no longer floating, the trees no longer stealing him away. "Why am I here?"

The woman didn't speak, and yet Nandor suddenly knew the answers to his questions as though she had.

I am the witch, I am the woods, and the price will be paid. 

"It's too much," he said. "It's too much."

But the woman only looked at him. What is done cannot be undone.

Nandor ran then, back through the trees, looking for the way out. He could hear an echo, following him, words he did not recognize. He ran right into wakefulness, his eyes opening to the light of dawn, his heart pounding in his chest. But the dreams of children soon fade into nothingness, and Nandor's eyes closed as he fell back to sleep.

(The woods were waiting, and they would wait a little longer; after all, what is time to the tree? A wish had been granted, and the price would be paid in full. The forest would see to it.)

+

His strength continued to grow, and he found himself able to play outside for the first time in eleven years. Nandor had never been so happy in his life, nor so hungry, so tireless, so content. He helped his Mama and Tala, he swam in the river and ran through the grass. He finally felt like a real man, and not a child.

Then the forest claimed its first payment.

Javid fell ill a fortnight after Nandor's recovery, his skin pale, his eyes dull. He had no fever, nor pain, nor cough; yet, Nandor could not help but fear he was the reason for his brother's illness. As the weeks passed by, they all became certain that some new sickness had crept into the village on the back of the White Plague, eating away at those who were left behind. They prayed as vigorously for Javid as they had for Nandor, but the god's do not give miracles twice. When Javid died, Mama wept for many days, and Nandor felt more fear than he ever had, even while he lay dying himself.

"He was the only one who was sick in the entire village," he said quietly. "Mama... what did you promise them?"

Mama only cried harder.

+

Armeen went next a few months later, and Nandor felt a chill as he watched his brother's severe features be buried in the dirt. Farhad and Tala were crying in Mama's arms, but Nandor could not seem to cry, only watch, his heart in pain. He felt the new muscles which had seemingly grown in his body overnight, felt them flex and release and flex again. He wanted to test them out, and hated that he wanted them at all; his brother was dead, and he was certain it was his fault.

He did not think on where his newfound health and strength came from. He did not like to think of it, did not want to know. 

In the end, Mama buried three out of four sons that year. Farhad went just before the winter came, fading away as though he were nothing, all while Nandor grew. He took care of Tala now, Mama confined to her bed in her grief at having to outlive so many of her children. But the forest was not done, and soon Tala began to grow ill.

Nandor had been a quiet child his entire life, a dreamer full of hope. Now he was filled with nothing but rage.

"Haven't you taken enough?" he screamed at the trees, his face red with anger and hopelessness. "You have stolen my brothers already, leave my sister alone!"

He did not expect the trees to answer back.

"We have stolen nothing," a woman said, appearing out of the woods like she had been there all along and he'd just failed to notice her. "You cannot steal what was freely given."

Nandor fell to his knees. "Please," he begged. "Please, Mama did not know. The price is too high. Take me instead, just leave Tala alone. She does not deserve this."

The woman did not smile, did not frown, merely stared with an endless gaze. "What is done cannot be undone, and the price is fair. Strength for strength, health for health, life for life."

His rage died there, on his knees before the forest, before this creature with a woman's face. "Please."

But there was no mercy to be had, from the trees or the gods, and his pleas went unanswered.

+

Tala was the sweetest of them all, with her dark hair and dark eyes, always a smile and kind words on her lips. Even as she lay dying in his arms, she would not stop being good. "I don't want to die, Nandor," she said. "But if I must, I am glad you will live. Mama needs you.

Nandor wept into her hair. "I don't want you to die, Tala, if I could I would die for you."

"No," her eyes closed slowly. "No, my strength is yours now, and my life. I love you," and in the next breath she was gone.

He did not feel strong then, holding his sister's body in his arms. He only felt cold. She was buried in the ground beside their brothers, and he stood next to her grave alone, his mother unable to leave her bed. When Nandor went to her bedside, he found her lifeless body laying there, glassy eyes open and still, nothing of the fire left within.

+

He was twelve years old, and he had buried his loved ones beneath the earth. His name felt like a joke, though it was not funny. He did not trust the gods anymore, did not feel content with their will. He did not feel content at all. He shed his name and chose another; there would be no more Nandor Redha of Al Quolanudor. Nameless, orphaned, forgotten by the gods; he finally had the strength he'd always prayed for, but the price was high and unrelenting, just as he now had to be. So in the face of despair, with nothing but his stolen health, his grief and memories of his Mama's tales, Nandor Redha of Al Quolanudor became Nandor the Relentless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Redha (Reza) meaning Content, satisfied with God's will  
> Delbar-am meaning The one who has my heart  
> Habibi meaning My love, my dear, my darling or beloved  
> Dooset daram meaning I love you


End file.
